


Down your spine

by LittleLinor



Series: Ren's To Blame [4]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, Impact Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: Chrono had refused to go anywhere near the stronger variants of painplay until he knew for sure what he was doing--of course, this only meant that he planned to learn.Fluffy kink fic, first of a set of drabbles set inthis universe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As I was struggling through the last ten days of NaNo, I wrote a bunch of isolated fics for this ship. I didn't really mean to publish them, but I figured it'd be a new year's present to the people who have supported me so far.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: while I do try to be pretty realistic in my depictions, including safety concerns, this is in no way a reference. If it tickles your curiosity, do your own research before trying, or take a page out of Chrono's book and learn from someone who knows what they're doing

“You ready?”  
Maybe one day you'll stop marvelling at how gently he holds you before these things, at the absolute safety he manages to instill in you. Even already restrained, even though the hands tied above your head are pulling on your muscles in already painful ways, just his hand gently rubbing your scalp and the chance to rest your head on his shoulder are enough to make you feel warm.  
“Mmm,” you hum. “Go on.”  
He nods and pulls back. The cooler air hits your skin once more, on your chest and the parts of your back that were shielded by his arms, but it's not so much the temperature that makes you shiver. It's the slow, already relentless way he moves, taking away the support of his arms and gripping his crop securely, his eyes on you.  
The realisation, always shaking, that you do want him to hit you.  
You don't know what to expect. It's the first time he's using this on you, that pain comes from an actual instrument rather than just his hands and teeth. And impact, you know from all the hits you've taken in other contexts, is going to be much different from the kind of bruising he's given you so far. Sudden. Sharp, biting, even with dull hits that spread with wide impacts. But more importantly—it's his face that's different, the confidence in him as he shifts the crop in his hand, staring you down. Pondering.  
You wonder where he's going to hit you, and realise with a shudder that he's wondering the same thing.  
It makes your breath short.  
Finally, he moves closer again, putting one knee down to cup your cheek.  
“Close your eyes.”  
You take in a shaky breath and obey him.  
It's both easier and harder. You can't flinch away from the hit you know will be coming, but now you're expecting it every second, and you don't know _where_ it will be. Your fight reflexes should be telling you if he moves, but your nervousness and anticipation are overriding the senses you fought so hard to train. And as he takes his hand away, you feel alone. Isolated. Exposed.  
Vulnerable.  
You force yourself to breathe in, and let your head fall forward slightly.  
You barely have time to hear the soft whoosh before pain snaps into the left side of your ribs.  
You gasp, let out a choked noise of surprise and pain, your shoulders tensing on reflex, your arms pulling on the cuffs keeping your wrists together. The crop leaves before you can even register what it felt like, but the pain is still there, a bright line of burning heat that sinks into your flesh, spreads in every direction. You bite your lip, hold back a whimper.  
The pain doesn't leave, and _that_ goes to your heart and gut like an arrow.  
His hand returns, just for a second, caressing hair out of your face. And then he's gone again, and before you can brace it's your arm that's hit, on the other side, and you feel the impact run into your very bone.  
Another, on the top of your thigh, bared with the way you're kneeling with your back straight. The burn flares across your skin, heat pulsing.  
He hits the side of your ribs again and you cry out this time, jerking forward reflexively and breathing out his name as you gasp.  
“Ch—Chrono...”  
You almost expect his hand, but it's the tip of his crop that touches your face, and you shudder immediately.  
“Kouji...”  
He's not going to do it. You _know_ , he wouldn't ever do something risky without asking first, and you don't think he'd be the type to hit your face at all. But feeling the leather stroke your cheek still makes your whole body shudder because _what if_. What if that leathered tip came to whip and slice at your cheek, the impact too sharp and precise to move your head at all.  
The idea makes you want to sob.  
And yet part of you still wants it, just like it wants to beg for that burn on your back, for your entire flesh to be ploughed through by pain until you can do nothing but collapse in his arms.  
 _Chrono_.  
He lets the crop fall, just a little, and hooks it under your chin to tilt it up, forcing your head back.  
“Kouji. Open your eyes. Look at me.”  
Short and precise, and so different from his usual way of speaking, but you cling to his words and their simplicity. You open your eyes.  
It takes a few seconds for them to adjust and focus on his face, and another couple to take in his expression.  
He's smiling. Not his usual grin, but a small, quiet, almost serene smile, that laces with fondness when you blink and look at him properly.  
“Good.” And then, a hint less confident: “You okay?”  
You nod silently. He smiles deeper.  
“Good. I'm just getting started, wanted to make sure you could take it.”  
 _I can_ , your heart cries out. _I can, I want, I can_.  
 _Please._  
He nods, finally, after several moments of observing you, and you want to close your eyes again but you don't dare, not when he's told you to open them. You try your best to keep them on his.  
The next hit is to your arm again, on the other side. You flinch a little when it hits, but open your eyes straight away again, trying to keep them up and on his face. Another hit, just a little higher. A third.  
The pain spreads, radiates through your entire arm. You'd taken the arm ones to be lighter and more benign, but with every hit, the reality of it dawns on you: every scrap of pain lodges itself inside your muscles, and with the tension, it roots itself deep inside you, radiates every new hit, pulses heaviness until your very bones are sore.  
And he's _just getting started_. You realise with a shudder that this isn't even his main intent. He's wearing you down.  
You sob, once.  
His eyes are still on you. There's a light in them that makes them shine, their sharp green cutting right into you in the dim lighting of the room. And looking up at him like this makes you feel even weaker. Because of the position, but also because you realise you're essentially begging. It's written all over your face and you know it.  
He smiles, gently, and you barely catch the brighter glint in his eyes before pain hits again on your arm, dangerously close to your face. You cry out, the noise light and weak, and looking at him while it leaves your throat would be enough to destroy you on its own.  
You want to hide so much. But you love that you can't.  
“You're doing good,” he murmurs, and the last hit on that arm, much lighter but still sharp, is to your fingers, curled as they were above your head.   
You yelp and let them hang.  
 _I can't hold on to anything..._  
No support but his eyes, and he's obviously set on breaking you slowly. You shudder, the urge to look down overwhelming.  
He moves the crop to your other arm. It slides against your skin, rod rather than leather, slowly caressing up like a soothing touch, brushing against the one mark you already have in a way that makes you hiss softly. His hand on the crop is relaxed, firm in key places but loose in most of his fingers, and you recognise the fluidity, the assurance from when you were taught how to hold a sword.  
A hold for speed, power, precision rather than brute force.  
He flicks his wrist, brings his arm back with it, and whips the crop against your arm with a lashing clap, almost drowning your whimper out. Another, above it, and your other arm already feels weak, hanging from lack of strength, barely daring to hang because of the pain, catching you suspended between the two as he hits you again. You bite your lips and don't even try to hide it. At this rate, he's going to catch budding tears in your eyes.  
The crop brushes against your arm again, and this time you're acutely aware of all the marks, still burning as he touches them. It's his fingers you want there, his skin against the heated lines, his thumbs running along them, reawaking the pain.  
Experiencing you, the way your body reacts to his hits.  
You hope the marks will stay there for a long time.  
You want the _pain_ to stay for a long time. You want to wake up to its residual echoes, to soreness in the depths of your body, tomorrow, the day after, the day after that. Wake up to his mark on your body every time you move.  
The idea makes you smile, a tearful happy chuckle before he hits again and pulls a cry out of you, your fingers tightening on reflex and unclenching immediately as the pain in them worsens.  
It makes him smile, a soft, warm smile that tints his eyes with gentleness. He hits again, the fingers of your other hand, and even though you know he didn't do it hard at all, it's enough to make them flare.  
He kneels in front of you, then, a hand cupping your cheek.   
“Kouji.”  
“Mmm.”  
You want to lean forward into him again, but he's just far enough that you can't, and pulling on your bound, sore arms is the last thing you want to do right now.  
Later, you know, later you'll be exhausted enough that the pain in them will almost be a solace when you let yourself slump. But right now, they're a good incentive to stay straight.  
You lean your head into his hand instead.  
“… I love you,” he whispers, quick and light before he kisses you, as if he couldn't hold back his excitement.  
And it feels real. More than at any other time, it's when he's got you defenceless that you can actually believe those words, when he could just leave you behind, when you're broken and would cling, make do with the smallest scrap, when he could get away with a mere pretence of affection and still gives you warmth, comfort, reassurance. Affection.  
Love.  
There's love in the way he hits and love in the way he holds and love in the fond, playful way his lips move against yours, as if coaxing you to play with him. Guiding, always, even in this.   
And he's _trained_. He's trained for this, to do it safely and give you the exact experience he wanted, put effort and research and time into it. You'd felt a little scared and jealous when he explained what he had planned to do, at the idea of someone else crying out under his hand, but that's gone now, because _this_ , this goes beyond the technical, and all the effort he put into it only makes it more precious.  
He tried for your sake and you feel intensely humbled by it.  
He kisses the corner of your lips when he pulls back, still warm and playful, and you can't help but smile back. You want—you want to close your eyes and sink deep within yourself and not feel anything beyond him and the pain he's giving. Be a puppet in his grip.  
But you know that won't be allowed. He wants you there for every second of it.  
“Chrono,” you breathe out as he moves back just slightly, watching your face.  
“Mmmm~” He puts his crop down, brushes his hands up your arms lightly like you'd wanted earlier, making you gasp and shiver. “How's it feel?”  
“It hurts,” you breathe out again as if it wasn't an evidence. But you want him to know. Somehow, it feels important to say.  
“Too much?”  
You shake your head, quickly. A little more insistently than you need to, maybe. But gods, scared as you are, you don't want him to stop.  
It makes him chuckle, something bubbly that almost melts into a giggle.  
“Don't worry, I won't stop. You'll tell me if it's too much, right?”  
You nod.  
“I promise...” you add, because you want to give him as much safety as he gives you.  
“Thanks,” he says, and kisses the base of your ear.  
The pain from your arms is still pulsing, radiating, the ache in them spreading little tendrils of sharpness into your shoulders, your back. He brushes at them again, rubs a thumb against a mark on your left arm.   
You gasp, let your breath pick up.  
“You're looking good, by the way,” he murmurs, and the chuckle you let out, both flattered and embarrassed, is halfway to a sob.  
“That's…” you force out, winded, “high praise… coming from you...”  
He giggles and lets go of your arms to brush hair out of your face, his other hand cupping your jaw.  
“And _you_ 're doing more than fine if you can still joke around.” His smile deepens, then, darkens, the corners of his mouth predatory. “I should push you harder, then.”  
Instantly, your breath grows short again.  
“Please.”  
The hand combing through your hair moves towards the back of your scalp, fingers buried deep in it. Tightens into a fist. Pulls.  
You whimper and let your head fall back, squeezing your eyes shut for a second as the movement pulls on your arms. He's not even aggressive about it, his movements almost casual, and it gets to you all the more.   
He kisses you again. It's rougher this time, possessive, but still the way he moves his lips against yours, his tongue between yours, is tender. Pressuring for the sake of it, rather than to get anything out of you. You open your lips readily, let him play with your mouth however he wants, your eyes closing in pleasure and at his proximity.  
You're shaking lightly when he releases you, both from being kissed and from the strain on your already sore arms, and he takes the time to pet your hair gently for a few seconds before pulling back and standing up again.  
The crop hits before you can look back up. It draws a line of fire against your ribs, and you wonder if he's actually broken skin. And this time, with the pain in your arms, you can't slump, instead trying to stay as straight as you can even as the next hit comes—a little more to the front, and sharper.  
You blink sweat out of your eyes and look back up at him. He smiles.  
“Hehe, you remembered.”  
 _Of course_ , you want to say, but he's already tracing your jaw with the tip of his crop again, and after a few seconds he pulls back, takes it in his hand, focus tightening his features into a frown, and flicks the crop at you, lighter but faster than usual.  
The leather tip whips against the skin of your chest, fast and bright, and it takes you a couple of seconds to register the burn, the sharp pain, the way your skin pulls.  
He's cut you.  
You inhale sharply, looking up at him with no idea what expression you're wearing anymore, just a mess of shock and pleasure and disbelief and satisfaction.  
He'd had yet to actually break your skin. That's done now.  
You wonder if it's bleeding.  
He lets out a small sigh. Relief. And then his eyes smile again.  
Another flick and he cuts the skin again. Lower, near the bottom of your ribcage. And then he moves up again, whipping at the underside of your arm where it's lifted, resting against your face.  
“ _There_ we go...”  
He switches his crop to his other hand and kneels one leg down, reaching with his hand for the cut he's just made, still burning with impact.  
His thumb comes down lightly smeared with blood.  
You shudder as he licks it off, close your eyes as he moves close, moan as he kisses you, pushing the taste right into your mouth, holding your head in place. And you've tasted blood so many times when you cut your mouth or had to suck at your own small injuries, but this feels different, mixed with his own taste and the slow, pressing movements of his tongue.  
Against the skin of your arm, you feel another drop run and duck into the hollow of your armpit, tickling and making you squirm.

He breaks away. You pant, chest heaving, and shiver as he runs fingers along your throat.  
“That was nice.”  
You nod. He shifts, pushing himself up a little, and you don't even have time to wonder what he's doing before his mouth has landed on your arm.   
“C-Chrono—”  
He licks up your arm, cleaning away the blood. It feels—scandalous almost, embarrassing in the same way having his tongue on your neck always feels too intimate, too heavy and demanding with the way your skin tingles. It makes you want to hide, but you have yet to do anything other than let him or bare yourself even more.  
His mouth settles on the broken skin and sucks lightly.  
It doesn't even hurt much. Definitely less than the actual cut had, and less than the impacts before that. But there's something about the way he holds you in place, hands pressing on the bruises on your arm, about the way his mouth presses against your skin, that makes you feel—limp. Helpless. Maleable.  
And knowing he's tasting your blood gets to your gut.  
He moves down. You try your best to look at him, despite the shaking that's getting more and more out of your control.  
“I'm gonna go harder,” he says, making sure to hold your eyes. “Okay?”  
You nod.

He stands, again. You bite your lip, and try to follow with your eyes, but he soothes at your cheek with his crop again.  
“I'm gonna move around, don't worry about it.”  
You nod and let your head fall, unsure whether you're disappointed or relieved.  
You don't have much time to ponder on that. Within a few seconds the hard part of his crop is hitting your other arm again, like a reminder, sending the numb pain in your arm circling again. Another, lower. One to your other arm.  
You gasp as each hit lands, gradually falling into small cries instead. It feels—relentless, like the feeling you'd always gotten from him was finally allowed to bloom. Like he'd never until now been given the medium he needed, and now that he's found it, he's letting you experience its taste.  
You think he's chosen his weapon well.  
The next hit goes to your side again, and you cry out, head falling forward. It's—overwhelming, _too much_ , almost, and you realise with a shudder that yes, this, _this_ is exactly what you wanted. This is just the beginning.  
You're barely starting to feel yourself crack around the edges, and you want to break.  
He hits again. It's harder—fast and hot, gone as quick as it came, and a mere two seconds later, there's another one, lower. Then one to your thighs—you lean back, and sob as it pulls on your arms—then another. A third. And up your other side, starting some distance above your waist.  
And just as you think you're starting to get comfortable in the buffeting storm of pain, a hit lands on your back. 

You can't hold any of it in. You cry out, loudly, a choked yelp that doesn't even have time to calm down before he hits you again—and your head rings with it even though he hasn't come close to your neck.  
It _hurts_ , burns, sinks into you like a knife with every hit, the impact resonating through your body and anchoring inside your chest. Every hit feels like it chips away at you, strips part of your skin away, and the worst is, he's probably _holding back_ but you're already starting to break.  
The pain just keeps coming. On one side, at first, and then on the other, just when you'd started to lean sideways, forcing you to straighten before you give up, slumping forward with your weight on your sore arms. He hits down the sides of your back and you _sob_ , choking on it when a line of pain lands harder than the others, and it's only when he pauses to gently trace your spine with the leathered tip that you realise your face is covered in tears.  
 _Chrono!_  
You want to call out to him but you don't want him to stop. You're so close, so close to losing yourself, and you want to beg at him—for what, you're not even sure. Part of you almost wants to beg for him to stop—the same, guilty part whispers at you that you don't want him to listen. But you know he would, you know he always would, so you keep the name and prayers inside your throat, keep your cries to sobs, and let yourself sink as he goes back to printing burning patterns on your back.  
The storm pauses. For a second, you think he's stopped, but instead, his fingers softly come to rest on your shoulder. And he brushes them towards your neck, catching your hair with his wrist. Moving it aside.  
He traces a line along your shoulder, around the nape of your neck, and to the other shoulder, pushing your hair past it and to your chest. Your neck is bared, now, at least up to half its height, where your hair curtains over it as it curves to your shoulder. But—you realise—it's your back and shoulder he was trying to bare. And the kiss he leaves on your naked shoulder only confirms it.  
You never stopped shivering, but now you're shaking.  
His crop hits your shoulder. It's light and whipping, but sharp like a blade. And then further down your back, on the shoulderblade.  
You bit your lips, whimpering freely. The leathered tip of his crop traces the edge of your hand, caresses the shoulder over which he leaned your hair. And again he hits, harder.  
You're not going to be able to hold back. You want him to _break you_.  
He hits your back, hard, whipping. You can't tell anymore which line is where, whether the patterns he's drawing are organised or just a mess of red. And you don't care—part of you wants to be shoved on your stomach and hit again. And you wish, almost, that there really was no restraint, that the areas he's been conspicuously avoiding weren't actual risks that you know he's unwilling to take.  
But it doesn't matter. You're hit on the back of your side again, and then closer, not far under your armpit, and you let yourself cry out, sob, because—  
You hope he's listening. And you hope, fiercely, that the pain and tears you're putting on display feel as full of love to him as what he's doing feels to you.  
You want them to carry your message.  
 _Please undo me; I want to become myself again in your arms._  
And then.  
 _I love you._  
And then.  
 _I want… to give you everything I am_.  
Another hit, and you're outright crying, whatever restraint you had left finally breaking.  
“ _Chrono!_ ”  
It's desperate and wrecked with sobs and you pray with everything you have left that it will encourage him, not make him stop.  
He hits again. You slump forward, pulling on your arms, and it's almost a _relief_. Another hit, and another, and here and there the sharper slice of leather. And you sob. With each hit you sob louder, before gasping smaller ones whenever you get time to breathe.  
You can't feel anything anymore. You feel too much at once. And the pain spreads, sinks, drives its roots into you, an ache that fills your entire body as your skin burns.  
You haven't even realised he's stopped when his arms wrap around you.  
You gasp; his chest against your back is pressing on raw skin, waking up every scrap of pain, but his arms are tight around your waist, strong and warm and secure, and his head comes to lean on your bared shoulder.  
You swallow your hurried breath and start crying again, more quietly. More freely.  
Something broke, and you don't care. You just want to keep crying until everything in you is spent, and being in his arms like this feels so _good_. Letting go feels so good.  
You don't want him to ever let go.  
“Chrono...”  
You gasp out his name, and his arms tighten around you, almost uncomfortable in the way they dictate your position once more. He nuzzles your shoulder, leaves a kiss against your skin.  
Your next call of his name is drawn out, the last syllable dragged with sobs.   
“I'm here,” he murmurs.  
You're not sure if you're laughing or crying.  
You feel so weak. You feel so loved.  
You want to hide inside this broken feeling forever.  
It's so _warm_.

You let yourself cry. It evens out, after a few minutes, more quiet but still flowing, like it's just your natural state. You lean into Chrono's hold, and feel him shifting slightly to kiss and nuzzle at your neck.  
“… can you hold yourself up?” he asks. “It'll be easier if I can untie you...”  
You nod. It's hard, and you want nothing more than to slump, but if you grit your teeth a little you can stay upright, and relieve the tension on your arms. He kisses your shoulder again as you straighten, and lets go of your waist.  
It feels cold, but you make yourself stay still.   
He stands, moves in front of you, and reaches for the wide leather cuffs around your wrists, untying one first and carefully helping your arm down, then the other. You're grateful; without his support, you don't think you could have stopped it from just falling.  
It _hurts_. All through your chest and arms, deep and heavy. Like he's run his hands through your very flesh.  
You slump forward a little, arms limp in front of you, hands in your lap. His hand comes to rest on your head, pets your hair gently. And then, to your surprise, he just puts one knee down, sliding an arm behind your back.  
“Can you hang on to my neck?”  
You wince, but nod, and force your bruised arms to move, to circle his neck and hang on. He pushes you gently, from your knees to sitting sideways, and slides his other arm under your legs, hooking on the other side.  
And stands.  
You gasp. You knew he was stronger than his height hinted, but _this_ —is more than even you expected. He lets out a little strained breath, but carries you without caving anyway, standing up properly and taking the few steps to the bed.  
 _I could have walked!_ part of you wants to say, but in truth, you're liking this development more than you maybe should.  
“There,” he says, laying you down on the bed, legs first, then shoulders.  
You cling to his neck. He giggles.  
“Hey, let me go just for a second, okay? I need to get something.”  
“… can it wait?”  
Right away, a part of you lashes out at you for being so _needy_ , but he doesn't seem mad.  
Instead he stares at you. And eventually sighs gently and brushes hair out of your face.  
“Yeah. Yeah it can wait. Hang on.”  
He makes you sit up a little again so he can sit on the edge of the bed too, and then manoeuvres the both of you down, lying on your sides with your arms still around his neck, and his hand on the back of your head.  
You sigh and press your face to the front of his shoulder.  
“You really need to eat better,” he murmurs. “It shouldn't be this easy.”  
You know he's right. And yet him being able to carry you feels ridiculously, guiltily validating.  
Slowly, his fingers start rubbing into your scalp.  
“… are you okay?”  
“Mmm.”  
There are still sobs caught in your throat, and one bubbles out, breaking against his shoulder. He kisses your hair, and lets his fingers rub their way down to the back of your neck. You shiver, sob again, and press closer.  
He doesn't say anything, instead just massaging your nape and scraping his nails slightly every now and then.  
You don't want to move.  
His other hand starts caressing along your shoulder, your arm.  
“… you're starting to bruise,” he says, quietly.  
You smile against his skin. He chuckles, scratching at your neck affectionately.  
“Happy, huh?”  
“Yes.” You take a sigh, pushing the sobs away a little bit. “It hurts… so deeply.” So _much_.  
It feels almost perfect.  
You want to see the marks, the bruises, all the signs that brand his presence into your body. Every bruise spells _I was there_ , and you want to _see_.  
But for now, you feel them, and that's more than enough. And even more so when he starts pressing them, rubbing lightly. Gentle, but enough to make you gasp in pain again.  
“… I really didn't go easy on you, huh? Sorry,” he adds, rubbing your scalp.  
“Don't… don't apologise.” You pull yourself closer. “It was… incredible.”  
“… that much?”  
“That much.” You breathe out, shakily. “Thank you, Chrono.”  
He hugs you closer, squeezing.  
“You're welcome.”  
You let the silence stretch, letting the dual daze of pain and warmth blanket you, comfort you. And god, you don't want to move.  
“… I didn't think you'd break down this far,” he confesses, quiet.  
You chuckle.  
“You were—” you gasp, your laugh having woken up pain in your back, “very convincing.”  
He laughs quietly, almost giggly.  
“I tried.”  
“… you could...”  
You hesitate.  
“Hm?”  
“… you could… probably push me further… if you wanted.”  
He gasps, his indrawn breath shaking.  
“I…” He kisses your hair, quickly. “… I'll think about it,” he continues, quietly.  
You hum, warm and comfortable.  
“… Chrono?” you ask, to ease the one worry at the back of your mind.  
“Yeah?”  
“Was this… please don't push yourself beyond what you want, I don't want to—”  
“Nah, it was good,” he says, messing up your hair a little. “It was...”  
He pauses, looking for his words. You wait.  
“… it was _something_ ,” he finally says. “I knew doing it to you would get to me more, but…” He breathes out, shakily. “Especially when you were looking up at me. It made me _want_ to go harder.”  
You can't hold back a pleased smile.  
“You did say you were only getting started.”  
He laughs quietly.  
“Yeah well that was the plan, but I was worried I wouldn't be able to deliver.” He rubs at your arm again, and you can _hear_ the grin in his voice. “You did a good job of getting me hooked.”  
It makes you prouder than you should probably be.  
Your breath is calmer now, and you let it even out slowly, ease down, a slow, deep in and out that brings you the scent of his skin, even buffered by his shirt. You take your time to savour it, let his scent and his calm sink into your bones.  
You feel heavy, but it's a good feeling, like sinking into something soft.  
“You gonna let me get up now?” he murmurs.  
“What did you need to get?”  
“Uh, water, something to clean those scrapes… band-aids, maybe.” He pauses. “And you need _something_ to eat.”  
You chuckle at the last part. You have a feeling he's going to check up on you a lot more in the near future.  
“… I'd rather stay like this for now. … if you don't mind,” you add, more quietly. “You're… doing more than band-aids could, I think.”  
He hesitates for a moment, but then tightens his hold, and it's like sinking deeper.  
“I can do that.”


End file.
